


Roses and Knives ~ Johnlock

by Yogurtjamcheese



Series: Johnlock oneshots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (after), Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Cutting, Depression, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, How Do I Tag, John is a Mess, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sad, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 19:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20377255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yogurtjamcheese/pseuds/Yogurtjamcheese
Summary: It had been one year since the events of the Reichenbach fall, John still lived in the flat. Every day life was getting harder, he was so alone without Sherlock. Every day he got closer and closer to ending it all...But when he finally tried to it didn't go as planned.written by an angsty friend of mine.





	Roses and Knives ~ Johnlock

Roses and Knives

*TRIGGER WARNING self harm and suicide, read at your own risk.*

John pov

It had been one year since the events of the Reichenbach fall, John still lived in the flat. Every day the thought of moving out haunted him. He knew he would have to eventually, but every time he thought about moving out felt like he was betraying Sherlock… Somehow.

He had slowly tried to adapt into a new routine, without Sherlock. Sometimes he still found himself in the morning, making a second cup of tea out of habit. Then crying when he realised what he had done. Living without him just felt so… Wrong. 

Today was the one year anniversary of Sherlock’s death. John decided to go visit Sherlock’s grave, a common pastime for John these days.   
He reached the grave. The one engraved with Sherlock's name. Part of him still hadn't fully accepted the fact that Sherlock was dead. Every day he would wake up hoping that Sherlock would pop out from behind a wall telling John it was just another magic trick, some master plan to solve a case. But he didn’t. John lay some roses on the grave.

“Why did you do this to me Sherlock…”

Sherlock pov

Sherlock had watched John come and go from his grave multiple times. It was painful to watch John cry for his sake. All Sherlock wanted to do was to tell John he was okay. He wanted to hold John in his arms and apologize for all the times he had hurt him. He wanted to hold the army doctor and kiss him… 

Whoa. Where had that thought come from?

Sherlock suddenly became aware of the tears spilling from his eyes. He quickly wiped them away. John had long left his grave.   
Dismissing the questionable thoughts, he walked over. lifting a single rose from the bunch sitting at the foot of his grave, sniffing it. Its bittersweet scent made Sherlock want to cry all over again. But he held back his tears and walked away. The rose still clutched in his hand.

Sherlock knew that John had work today. Maybe he would visit the old flat. This thought had crossed his mind several times, but he had never done it. Too risky…

A few minutes later Sherlock was at his old home, he knew this might turn out to be a really bad idea but he couldn't stand it. It had been months since he had been here. His true home. He still had a key so he let himself in, welcomed by the familiarity of the place. A stack of newspapers was sitting on John's chair. He strolled through the flat, checking all the rooms.

He found his way back to his old room and discovered that his old bedroom had been left untouched. Somewhat. There were signs of regular cleaning and the bed was made. He collapsed on his bed, surprised to find a different scent there.

John.

His old sheets smelled like John used to. Sherlock smiled into his pillow, curling up in the sheets. Remembering the fun times that he and John had shared together in the flat. Watching movies, and how John would try and entertain him when he was bored.

Sherlock realized that he had been in the flat for nearly two hours. So he left.

John pov

John had returned from work exhausted. He had been late to work because he was at Sherlock's grave. As he passed through the main sitting area He noticed something strange; a single rose lying on the floor near his chair. Not just any rose, one of the ones that he had brought to Sherlock's grave. 

Must have dropped it. He thought as he picked up the rose, but something was wrong. A suspicious kind of feeling clouded his thoughts. Maybe, somehow, Sherlock was still alive.

Stop trying to trick yourself into believing your own stupid lies and fantasies John. He's dead and he's never coming back. The voices in his head were coming back, their whispers getting louder. Why is it that your so weak that you still can't accept his death and move on? Did you love him? was that it? Is that why you still haven't moved out of his house? Is that why you cry in his bed every night? You stupid fag! You’re completely worthless! You should just kill yourself! 

John was on the floor. Curled in a ball, full of self hatred, body racked with sobs. After a while, he slowly got up, and walked to his room. He reached under his bed, feeling around the dust for it. His fingers finally curling around a knife.

No. He had promised himself he wouldn't come to this. Not again. He knew that Sherlock was going to find out... But Sherlock was gone now.

DO IT!!!

The voices were screaming in his head, so loud, he couldn't hear anything else. Ever since Sherlock died, everything had been so horribly quiet. Now it was loud. The air filled with voices that only John could hear.

Tears flooded his vision. The knife blade slid against his skin. Pain flowed through his body, washing all the voices away. Leaving only room for the pleasure that followed. A deep crimson cut glistened from his arm. John watched as blood leaked from the cut and formed small beads, trickling down his arm. 

Dripping off his fingers, and pooling on the floor.

His mind craved for more. Hungry for just one more cut. John obliged. A second cut appeared on his other arm. So much blood, John started to feel dizzy. He was still crying, but he could not... remember... why... His mind overwhelmed by pleasure and craving. He no longer cared if he died.  
So he continued carving away, until he collapsed into a pool of his own blood.

Sherlock pov

The next day, something was off. Sherlock’s detective senses (his peter tingle) were telling him something but he couldn't figure it out.

John, John, JOHN.

John was all he could think about. Maybe that was it. He had seen something. Yesterday. In the flat. Yes. Sure. Maybe. He decided he would go investigate the old flat more thoroughly.

Sherlock waited silently outside the flat. Eventually, John appeared at the door. Sherlock noticed that he was wearing an unusual outfit. His left pocket was bulging quite visibly. John had to work today, but his taxi sped off in the direction of… The graveyard? Hmm. Sherlock made note of this and waited until he was sure that John had gone. Then he quietly let himself into the flat. 

Immediately he knew something was wrong. The stack of newspapers on John’s chair was still there, untouched, meaning that John hadn't sat down in it since before Sherlock had came in yesterday. Very unlike him as he usually ate in it. He checked the kitchen. It was in the exact same state as it had been yesterday. The amount of dishes in the sink hadn’t changed. John hadn’t eaten. Everything in all the other rooms were left untouched. 

Sherlock opened the door to Johns room. His breath hitched in his throat. Pools of drying blood all over the floor. A bloodstained knife was thrown carelessly on the bed, making a reddish brown mark on John’s white sheets.

Oh god. John. 

There were no signs of a fight, besides, someone who would attack John wouldn't leave their weapon somewhere so obvious. John wasn't dead, he acted as if nothing had happened. Most evidence points to John being the only one in the flat. Sherlock would’ve noticed signs of an intruder. Sherlock remembered Johns unusual outfit and the Bulge of his pocket.

Ransom or blackmail? Maybe torture or threats? Sherlock refused to believe what all the evidence clearly showed him. John wouldn't do this… Would he? He desperately tried to think of something, anything that would explain this other than the obvious truth, but for once he had no answers. Because only someone with nothing to lose wouldn't try to clean up all this blood. Only someone who was about to die…

John pov.

John went to visit Sherlock’s grave one last time. He had brought the rose he found in the flat, now withered dry. Tears were silently slipping down his face. Placing the dead rose and a note on Sherlock’s grave, he noticed a large tree nearby. 

Pulling the noose from his pocket, he climbed the tree. Straddling one of the lower branches, John secured one end of the noose around the thick branch. Hands shaking, he slipped the loop around his neck. Then carefully lowered himself until he was holding on to the branch with just his fingertips. 

Then, he let go.

Sherlock pov

Three minutes. That's how long the human brain can survive without oxygen. He needed to hurry.  
“TAXI!!!” He screamed. He caught one. “Please.” He begged. “I need to get to the graveyard, quickly, my friend might die.” The taxi driver just looked at him skeptically. He needed to hurry. He couldn't be too late. He just couldn't.

When they got there Sherlock fumbled with his wallet. Pulling out some money and throwing it at the driver. The driver's eyes widened. Sherlock knew he had overpaid, but he didn’t care.   
“Sir your change--”

“Keep it.” Sherlock snapped and ran into the graveyard. Screaming John's name. He prayed that his deduction was wrong, but he had never been wrong before. He didn’t care that he was supposed to be dead. He only cared about John.

When Sherlock found him, John wasn’t breathing. He was just hanging, limply from a tree. Sherlock panicked, clawing at the noose until it came untied, finally setting John free.  
He called 999.

“Hello… Yes… My friend, he just tried t-to hang himself… He also may have been recently doing self harm. I-I think he lost a lot of blood… John Watson… Ok… Thank you.”  
He ended the call. He pulled up Johns sleeve to check his pulse. What he saw made his eyes tunnel. Cuts and scars, old and new, criss-crossing all over his arm.   
“John… I’m so, so sorry.”

Sherlock shook himself back to reality and checked Johns pulse. It was light and fragile but it was still there. He sighed in relief. At least he had a pulse.  
Sherlock noticed a small bit of paper near his grave. He picked it up curiously, and read:

Sherlock,  
I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do. I’m mostly writing to you because I have no one else, and because you were my everything. You were the most amazing, brilliant, beautiful man I had ever met. I was so lucky to have met you, and I suppose I owe you an explanation. After the war, I would have terrible dreams, every night. My only escape was a blade. Every time I would wake up in a cold sweat, I would cut. It became an addiction. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. Then I met you. And everything changed. For a short while, things were better. Even the voices started to fade away. But nothing can last forever. All good things come to a bitter end. When you died, I was so heartbroken. It was hard to breathe, it still is. Now that you’re gone, old habits are coming back to plague me. It’s becoming harder and harder, waking up in the morning, knowing that you’re not here anymore. I don't know what will happen when I die. But maybe I will see you again.  
I love you,  
John.

Sherlock was stunned. Tears came in torrents. He had no idea. No idea that his “death” would affect John this badly. He wished he could take it all back. But it was too late. The damage had been done.  
And what about the last line? John… Loved him? Sherlock had never really considered John as anything more than a friend. Then again, sometimes His brain would surprise him with an offhand thought. He would be in his mind palace in a daze only to find himself fantasizing about what the army doctors lips would feel like against his…

No. This was not the time to be having a little schoolgirl fantasy. John was DYING!

This thought snapped Sherlock back to reality. He could hear sirens getting closer. The only thing Sherlock could do was stuff the note into his pocket and wait.  
The ambulance arrived. Doctors carried John away. A man came over to talk to Sherlock. He asked him a lot of questions but Sherlock kind of zoned out. He was so worried about John. He decided not to ride with John. After all. Sherlock was supposed to be dead.

John pov

The next day John awoke in a hospital bed, wondering why he was still alive. He could hear beeping equipment off somewhere behind him. Some nurse rushed in.  
“Oh! You're awake. Good.”

She checked Johns pulse. “You gave us quite a scare Mr. Watson” She said to him.

“W-who found m-me?” John’s tried to yell, but his voice was barely a whisper. The nurse ignored him. He was angry. Why couldn't the world just let him die? He had nothing, no one left to live for. Not a single person would’ve cared if he died, not anymore.

God, it was like the whole world was against him. Give him a few happy years with an amazing man. Then rip apart John’s whole world by taking him away. He just wanted it to all stop. All of it. He resented his twisted excuse of a life.

He thrashed around. Maybe if some of the tubes in his arms fell out, whatever devices they were using to keep him alive would stop working. 

John realized that the nurse was still there. She was trying to hold him down. Whispering soothing words that John couldn't hear.

Finally John stopped. He was thwarted. He may be suicidal, but he wasn't stupid. He would just have to wait until he was out of the hellish hospital and then he could try again. He wouldn't fail a second time. “Who… Found… Me.” He repeated to the nurse. 

“Oh well… The man wanted to remain anonymous. He was a tall fellow with curly hair and blue eyes. I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to tell you more.”

A tall man with curly hair and blue eyes... John could think of only one such man; Sherlock.

It could’ve been anyone John. Don’t get your hopes up. 

The next few days crawled by. He was questioned about bullshit that he didn't care about. It was explained to him over and over that: “Life is precious.” and “You have so much to live for.” The people at the hospital recommended him to get a therapist, but how he didn’t have to because he was a legal adult. John didn’t care. He just stared blankly at the nurses and doctors while they droned on and on.   
Then on his last day before he could leave the hospital, in the middle of the night, something strange happened. He was having a nightmare about the war. Gunfire all around him, it was terrible. Then it changed. He was being gently shaken awake. He was lying on his hospital bed, and the person who had awoken him… Oh god. It was Sherlock.

“Your not real. It's just a dream. Please go away.” John mumbled.

“Maybe.” Dream Sherlock said. “But I won't go away. I still care about you John.” Dream Sherlock pulled Johns suicide note out of his pocket.

“Listen to me. I got your note. I am so sorry John. I’m sorry for everything I ever did to hurt you, I’m sorry that I had to go, and I'm sorry that I never noticed how much pain you were in.” Dream Sherlock was crying now.

“John please. Please, don't try again. I couldn't stand it if you died because of me. ” Dream Sherlock Begged.

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.” 

“I promise.” John said, as he had, over and over again to all his nurses and doctors. But he couldn’t say no to Sherlock, and even though this was probably just a dream, he meant it this time.  
Then Dream Sherlock kissed him. John quietly gasped, then melted into the detective’s arms. It felt so real.

“B-but you’re dead…” John mumbled into the kiss.. Sherlock pulled away, smiling sadly. He brought out a needle and inserted it into Johns arm. John felt a small pain in his arm, then he felt himself starting to lose consciousness.

“Goodbye John, I love you too.”


End file.
